


31 Days Of Kink

by lovelorn (Wintress), Wintress



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BDSM, Bath Sex, Biting, Bondage, Cheating, Cunnilingus, DomSub, Drabbles, F/F, F/M, Face Sitting, Infidelity, Kinktober, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Orgasm, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, S3lf insert, Shibari, fem-dom, gagging, rope play, sub geralt, x Reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:28:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26875921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wintress/pseuds/lovelorn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wintress/pseuds/Wintress
Summary: 31 days, 31 separate chapters of xReader kink-based drabbles across various fandoms. It can only mean one thing: Kinktober time!Get your rubber sheets, its gonna get messy.(Tags updated each day)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 45





	1. CONTENTS

**Author's Note:**

> As an active participant in the kink community, this is a long time coming! I'm following user h0rnyghost's kinktober prompts.
> 
> Be aware: not all the chapters in this collection will be safe sane and consensual on the surface. There will be NO underage or blood incest in these chapters. Read the tags, click ahead to the end notes if you need to know before you read to see what each chapter contains, and protect yourself. You are responsible for what you view.
> 
> Any requests are welcome, just comment below to be considered!

**CONTENTS PAGE**

Day One: Bath (Steve Rogers x reader)

Day Two: Bondage (Geralt x reader)

Day Three: Body Worship

Day Four: Marking/Biting

Day Five: Spanking

Day Six: Sixty-Nine

Day Seven: Hands Free

Day Eight: Angry/Rough

Day Nine: Striptease

Day Ten: Car

Day Eleven: Control

Day Twelve: Risky

Day Thirteen: Lingerie

Day Fourteen: Workplace

Day Fifteen: Kissing

Day Sixteen: Morning

Day Seventeen: Oral

Day Eighteen: Fingering

Day Nineteen: Rimming

Day Twenty: Choking

Day Twenty-One: Massage

Day Twenty-Two: Riding

Day Twenty-Three: Drunk

Day Twenty-Four: Toys

Day Twenty-Five: Kitchen

Day Twenty-Six: Sleepy

Day Twenty-Seven: Breast/Nipple

Day Twenty-Eight: Handcross

Day Twenty-Nine: Knifeplay

Day Thirty: Aftercare

Day Thirty-One: Threesome


	2. ONE: Bath (Steve Rogers x Reader)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day One: Bath.  
> Skip to end notes for warnings and spoilers.

"We can't keep doing this, Steve."

There's a splash and patter of droplets as he scrubs at his face and sinks deeper into the hotel bath. He doesn’t answer, and you look over your shoulder. You've been sat on the filthy carpet for more than an hour now and your ass is numb, your shoulder aching no matter how you adjust yourself against the door frame. Steve still hasn't gotten out. He keeps draining it and topping up the hot water, soaking in silence. He's been in there since he got back from his mission, and this time it was too close a call for you both to ignore the elephant in the room any longer. 

"Bucky almost caught us. We were careless - if he'd come down that corridor just a few minutes earlier he would've seen us and then all hell would have broken loose." You press on. Guilt colours your cheeks: that's how you know this has to end. You and Steve have been fooling around for over a year, and Bucky joining the Avengers only complicated a thing that was meant to be uncomplicated. You say this aloud, seeing as Steve was doing nothing to keep up his end of the conversation. "This was supposed to be easy. Just sex. We should have stopped as soon as Bucky came into the picture."

"We weren't together, you know." His voice is rough when he finally speaks. Thick, like he's trying to talk around a lump in his throat. He still doesn't look at you, and only his shoulders and head are visible over the rim of the tub. You stay quiet to let him carry on in his own time.

Steve may have a reputation for not knowing when to shut up, but that's just because he always knows what to say. For him, silence means he's wrapped up in himself, contemplative; its not always a good thing. You shuffle around to face the tub fully, wincing at the pins and needles in your legs.

"When he first came back, he was so.... well, you remember. It was rough for him to heal. Find a new normal, especially after Thanos." Steve sniffs loudly and scrubs at his face again. "It took a while for him to admit he felt the same way I did. Back... before, you didn't talk about that kind of thing. It could spell a death sentence for guys like us. I didn't mean to fall in love with him, I really didn't. But we couldn't help ourselves. And now I have him, but I have you too, and I..." he trails off, and you crawl up to the bath, folding your arms on the rim and resting your chin on them. He doesn't look at you at first. His face is puffy and red, but he seems to have stopped crying. He drops his head back with a thunk and shuts his eyes, exhaling so long and deep it must come from his toes. 

When he lifts his head and opens his eyes, those baby blues are trained on you. "I don't want to lose either of you."

"You know you can't have us both." You say softly. He knows this, knows Bucky would never agree to it, and nods slowly. Sniffs wetly. 

"I love him." He says quietly. You know this too. You're no idiot, and you'd have to be to think that Steve would ever choose you over Bucky in any universe. At least it was fun while it lasted.

You're quiet for a few moments more, the AC and the bathroom vent humming to fill the porcelain silence inside the windowless bathroom. Finally he shifts, splashing tepid water onto the floor as he sits upright in the bath and opens his legs wide in a wordless invitation to join him. One last time. A goodbye.

You're barely on your feet when he darts forward and drags you on top of him, soaking your dusty uniform through. The kevlar woven battle vest instantly weighs you down where Steve has pulled you over to straddle him, and you grab his face and press down in a fierce kiss. It's awkward, messy - a clash of teeth and writhing tongue, and his lips move so hard against yours it feels more like he's biting at your mouth. Desperation fuels you both as you gasp and suck and groan, and it isn't long before your hips grind down to meet a tell-tale hardness between his legs. 

You draw back, with a grunt, hair soaked and dripping onto his flushed face. "Fuck my face." You pant out. There's barely a pause, then he's on his feet with a splash - and goddammit, if Steve Rogers towering above you, water running in rivulets tracing his muscles doesn't make your core clench in anticipation, then the sight of him gripping his thick cock and pumping it slowly in front of your face definitely does. You look up at him, on your knees in cold bath water, your mouth open and lolling your tongue out in welcome. He traces your face with his fingers before tangling them in your hair, and he thrusts his cock between your lips in one smooth slide.

He takes it easy on you at first - he's a gentleman that way. You could rile him up; you know that a twist of his balls and a hard suck to the head of his dick makes his knees buckle, or that he whines like a bitch in heat if you tongue his slit while you rub your thumb against his asshole. But this isn't the time. This is it, the last time. And by god are you gonna make sure you can both feel it for days after. You snake your hands up his thighs and grip his ass cheeks hard, pinching the firm muscle with your fingers, and yank his hips forward so his thrusts deepen. He balks, hand shooting up to the tile wall to steady himself, and you let his cock fall from between your mouth with a wet plop. 

"Don't fucking tickle me, Rogers - I wanna choke on it. Now fucking _mean it_ this time." You warn. He huffs out a laugh, getting with the programme at last. Steve grips your jaw roughly, feeding you his cock inch by inch. 

"Damn, I'm gonna miss the mouth on you." He rumbles, and you groan when his blunt head bumps against the soft skin of your throat. His thick length has forced your jaw open to its limit - any wider and you'd have to fucking unhinge it, and you love it. The stretch, the weight of his cock on your tongue and restricting your breath at the back of your mouth. You adjust yourself on your knees, sinking down and tilting your head back to open up your throat and your airways so you can breathe better. You say nothing, muzzled by Steve's dick, and you shoot him a challenging look.

Steve Rogers has never been one to back down from a challenge. And he definitely won't start now. 

Between one hand entwined in your hair and his other hand reaching down to cup around your throat, Steve starts fucking your face in earnest. His balls slap wetly against your chin as he thrusts down into the hot softness of your mouth. Every time his cock rams into your throat you let it open up more, until he can feel it through his grip on the smooth skin of your neck. You gag and whine, let out wet gargling sounds as he uses your face as a fuck toy. Your eyes roll shut at the rush, knowing he's using you as a means to his own pleasure, and you're helpless against the onslaught. When you crack an eyelid open Steve is looking down on you with wide eyes and creased brows, pupils blown so wide theyre more blue than black. Soon, too soon, his knees shake and he gasps out a curse. 

"Turn around," he orders with a trembling voice, dropping your head and yanking his cock out of your throat with an obscene squelch. You whirl on your knees, unbuckle your tac pants as he drops down behind you, draping his heavy weight over you as you're maneuvered to the edge of the bath and bent over the rim. He tries to kiss up the side of your neck but you turn away, eyes pricking with tears. You don't want this to be soft and loving - it'll only make reality hit harder when it's over. You can tell he's near tears too, probably why he turned you to face away from him. He rubs his cock between your folds, grinding against your clit and slicking up his length with your juices. You whimper, steady yourself on the side of the bath and reach back to guide him to your entrance. He eases in, breathing out in a shudder, and takes your hand and threads your fingers through his as he braces against the edge of the bath. He fills you up in all the best ways, and you can feel his stomach muscles twitching against your ass as he hits your limit. He almost asks "Ready?" Like he usually does, but something tells him it would break the fraught moment between you both, and send reality crashing down. Instead he settles closer to your body, chest to back, stomach to ass, and brushes his lips against your shoulder as he starts a filthy deep grind of his hips.

"F-fuck yes..." You hiss, dropping your head, rolling your hips to meet his.

"Christ, you're already so wet - _hnng -_ " Steve chokes out, rocking into you harder. Faster and faster, until you've both built a harsh, heavy rhythm. He thrusts in and out, and the slap of wet skin on skin is almost as obscene as the sound of your juices dripping into the dirty water at your knees. Panting, groaning, even an errant growl or two fills the air as he fucks your relentlessly. The pressure is insane - he shifts on his knees, arches your back deeper and grips the meat of your hip with his free hand to drag you back onto his cock to meet his thrusts, and just that minute change in position has the head of his dick grinding down on your G-spot. You can feel the tension building within you, tensing your thighs and fluttering your inner muscles. It's delicious - all heat and pressure and that filthy slide of his length filling you up and leaving you crying out for more, but it's not enough to make you come. 

Steve knows this, of course. You don't fuck a co-worker for over a year without learning what makes them scream. He tightens his grip around your fingers and drops his other hand from your hip, snakes it between your legs to capture your clit between his middle and forefinger. You gasp a frenzied "Ah! Fuck, Steve - _please_!" in time for him to flick his hand back and forth in a flurry over your bundle of nerves. Your moans reach a fever pitch. Fuck whoever overhears you in the next room over, you're being bent over the tub and fucked to within an inch of your life by Captain fucking America, and he's playing your clit like a fiddle, and god, you're so close, that coil is building and your legs are shaking and fuck, please, _fuck_ -

You come suddenly, your orgasm crashing into you like a freight train when that coil finally snaps, and you choke on air for a second before crying out. The dam bursts, heat floods your core, and your voice breaks as you gush your release over his cock and down the front of his thighs.

"God -" Steve grinds out between clenched teeth, ripping his hand from between your legs to pull his cock from your soaked folds, and after a few harsh jerks he's coming over your back in thick spurts with juddering hips and bitten back growls.

You both catch your breath, gasping in air with ragged pants. He slumps against you without a care for his release spattered up to your shoulders, breathing hard in your ear. You take his weight, and squeeze his hand where its still pinning yours to the lip of the tub. 

He never let go.

But when he does, it'll be the last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: rough sex, gagging, dirty talk.  
> Steve tries talking to you about the affair. It ends with you choking on his dick and fucking him in the bath.


	3. TWO: Bondage (Geralt x Reader)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I promise, this one isnt just a short drabble, but the next ones will be. I'm not very good at killing my darlings, but god do I like making them cry.
> 
> Warnings and spoilers in the end notes.

It's one of the coldest, wettest Harvests you've experienced since you began travelling with Geralt.

Normally this time of year yields crisp bright sunshine and late afternoon gales before the last of summer disappears, in time for Geralt to take on a few more jobs before making the long slog to Kaer Morhin. You normally part ways with him before then to spend Winters in Oxenford, assisting in odd jobs and keeping the library archives safe before he collects you in Spring, to start the cycle again. But this year? The weather has been so foul, you'd spent more nights shivering and soaked in your makeshift encampments than you had dry ones; you aren't as enhanced or sturdy as your travelling companion, and the awful sheets of rain and wind had made you miserable enough to beg him to stop a few nights in a local tavern after his next job.

Geralt hadn't put up much of a fight, unsurprisingly. While he isn't always the most agreeable sort of fellow, the man you'd secretly come to think of as your Witcher almost always acquiesces to you. You'd noticed it not long after you began travelling with him to document the monsters he fought. His quiet hum of assent and curt nod usually followed whatever request you'd asked of him and preceeded him granting your little wishes and whims, whether it was to go abed a hilltop to catch a meteor shower, to try strange pink whelks you'd spied in a fishmarket, to tell you stories of his youth. Where he normally holds a sarcastic comment or a double-meaning behind a pointed barb for most folks, he's quite and near reverent with you. And you adore him for it.

Your relationship is more than platonic, but holds no room for romance. Neither of you have the luxury for frippery beyond fumbling and fucking in lives like yours. But you find comfort in one another, a mutually beneficial arrangement. He fights. You write about it. He fucks your brains out after, more often than not.

It works, whatever it is.

*

On your way to the nearest tavern, the Earth must have heard your complaints and decided to give you both a little relief, for she holds back the winds and softens the rain to a light drizzle. You grin at Geralt from where you're seated atop your black mare, and he rolls his eyes and smiles fondly as he says "I know what you're going to say." 

"Can we -"

"Yes, we can visit the market on the way. That is, if they haven't packed up early with the downpour." 

You feel a warm bubble of delight at how easily he seems to give in. You tighten your grip on the reigns. "We'd better hurry then Witcher!" You call out, gearing your mare up into a straight canter toward the small town as Geralt barks a surprised laugh behind you.

He catches up before long and you both explore the stalls, though he was right, they'd sensed the weather would worsen afore it bettered so the stallholders were shutting shop early in time for Winter. You manage to haggle the price on a new clasp to sew onto your cloak, meaning to replace your old one that night after supper, but there isn't much else on sale that catches your eye. Geralt appears at your side as you turn to leave, though there's a curious dusting of pink across his high cheekbones. You squint at him as you both make your way to the tavern, walking the horses to the stables; Geralt of Rivia is definitely not one for blushing under normal circumstances. Or in any circumstances, not for the years you've known him.

"Buy anything nice?" You ask lightly. 

"A few provisions. Found a set of vials to hold potion. Why?" He doesn't as much as spare you a glance. You hum in reply, bed the mares down for the night, and make your way inside without another word. He's up to something.

*

You find out exactly what he's up to after supper. Full of stew and ale and curled up in an armchair in front of a roaring fire. You'd managed to snag the last room at the tavern, though it was tiny by any measure with little space between your perch and Geralt soaking in the bath beside you. You'd laid your cloak across your knees with your darning kit in hand, ready to mend any holes and replace the clasp, when Geralt darts up and out from the water so quickly he soaks you.

"Oi!" You snap, wiping your face down with your sleeve. "The fuck you playing at, Witcher? You'll flood the place!"

He doesn't reply. Instead he locks the door with its heavy deadbolt, and drops down to rummage in his pack.

"Geralt what on earth-"

"Just - just bloody give me a second!" He barks over his shoulder,. He catches your frown, must sense the hurt written in your features. He never spoke a cruel word to you, not in the whole time you've known him, not once. To snarl at you like that is completely out of character for him, and he's finally found what he's searching for by the time it hits you: he's not angry, he's _nervous_. An equally unfamiliar disposition when it comes to Geralt.

The Witcher stills with his back turned to you, on bended knee and still dripping bathwater over the dark floorboards and frayed rugs. The firelight plays across the heavy muscle and scarring across his back, and for a moment you're mesmerised with how it dances around the movements of his deliberate measured breaths. 

"Is something the matter?" Your voice breaks the quiet. He shakes his head; he hasn't even washed his hair yet, and the tips clump together in dark wet locks. 

"I'd like you to do something for me." He says eventually. His voice is even, its usual low timbre, and his gaze is steady when he finally turns to you.

"Of course," you reply, trying to keep the confusion from your voice. He says nothing else until he has stood, drawing himself to his full impressive height, striding to your seat, then dropping to his knees with a thunk and presenting you with a bundle of cloth. 

"Please." He says softly. Your breath hitches as you open the bundle: there, nestled in the cloth is swathes of smooth, silken rope. Its undyed, pure and a hemp-dappled pattern of russet and cream and ochre. The strands of material twist and wind so tightly they gleam in the firelight. Youre aware of the magnitude of this moment, of him finally entrusting something to you that he gives to very little others: his submission. 

" _Please_." He repeats. You look deep into those strange cat-like eyes of his, full of uncertainty and sincerity, and it strikes you that while he readily indulges your every silly whim, you too struggle to deny him his little pleasures, and you can't say no to this. Not that you want to. In fact, you're surprised to find you're almost as eager as him. For Geralt, you'd do near anything.

"Sit up straight for me, Witcher." You whisper. His back is ramrod, his chin held high as he holds your gaze. You cup his sharp jaw. Stubble rasps your palm as you draw your hand down to grip his chin, and as you tip his head further up you drag your eyes down the expanse of his neck. He goes willingly, and you're sure his deep measured breaths are deliberate on his part as they come slightly harsher through his parted lips. 

You tweak his chin as you let go, and the corners of his mouth quirk in a tiny smile. "For you, my darling, anything. All you had to do was ask." You mumble.

Geralt's lips twitch as he fights back a wide grin.

***

Hours later, even the smoothness of the rope has left your palms red and hot from how often you've wound the lengths around the Witcher's limbs and pulled them taut. It feels like you've tied hundreds of knots, and with each complicated twist his breaths have huffed harder and his composure has broken down, bit by bit, knot by knot. At this moment in time, Geralt is trussed up like a Yuletide boar, wrists bound behind his head, tied to his long braid of hair, pulling his hands further between his shoulders and attached to a complicated harness of rope around his hips. A section is nestled between his plump ass cheeks, and his legs are bent at the knee with his ankles bound around his thighs. He's immobile, stuck, and panting into the covers of the bed where he's laying face down as you draw your fingernail up his spine. He jerks and gods, but doesn't the play of his muscles in the firelight make the heat at your core burn hotter? 

His hips are rolling in tiny circles, rhythmically grinding down into a chastity knot around his cock. He's desperately seeking release from the edge you've had him balanced on for hours. 

You crouch down to where his face is mashed into the blankets, sweat soaked and that beautiful combination of pleasure-slackened and tight with effort. Hes really trying to control himself - you both know he could flex and burst from these knots. "You're doing so well, Witcher. You deserve a reward...what do you want?" 

Geralt squeezes his eyes shut, gasps; he must have found a little release against the knot. "You." He pants out. "Want to make you come." A thrill zaps through you, and you squeeze your thighs together and feel your face heat up. You help him onto his back, but when you go to loosen the harness keeping his hands bound he hurriedly shakes his head with a sharp grunt. "No, no - keep them on. Please. On my face. I want to use my mouth on you." 

"Fuck." You didn't mean to curse aloud, even in a breathless whisper. He's never done _that_ before: no one has, not to you. He heard you - of course he did - and his answering smile is soft and slack. You gingerly knee-walk to his head and lower yourself slowly.

"I don't want to squash you, so tell me if - _a-ah_! Geralt!" The rest of your warning is cut off with a stream of breathy moans and high-pitched cries as he surges up to bury his face in your cunt. Lapping, sucking, tasting your sweet juices that start gathering and dripping down his cheeks before long, intermingled with spit and sweat at his temples. He's making a fucking mess, and he soon has you writhing on his face and desperately trying not to squeeze his head atwixt your thighs. He pulls off your clit with a wet smack, and nips your inner thing. 

"Stop thinking. Ride my fucking face." He growls out, but softens when he sees your worried expression. Geralt smooths the bite mark with a kiss and a slow lick. "You won't crush me. I trust you." 

You're not sure if it's affection or arousal that loosens your limbs, but you don't get time to decide. He doesn't waste a moment before diving back in, mouthing wetly at your lips. The air is hot, heavy with sweat, and alive with the undulations of your bodies and the slick, lewd smacks and wet rhythms he dances out across your pussy. You let go, trusting him like you always do, like he does you, and grind down onto his face. He groans long and low, and shakes his head and latches onto your clit. The vibrations - the sounds - the petal-soft press of his tongue mixed with the burn of his stubble - the knowledge that you've got him, he's got you, you're both symbiotic and good and gods, _so fucking right_ in this moment - is enough to tip you over the edge and send a powerful orgasm crashing through your body. You cry out and grip his hair and ride his face until the wave of pleasure crests and peaks and starts to fall, but Gerald doesn't let up.

Your thighs shiver in overstimulation, and he chuckles.

"Not yet. We've got a long night ahead of us - hold on."

You do, just barely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: bondage, overstimulation, femdom
> 
> While you help Geralt indulge in one of his fantasies, you decide to incorporate some of your own - namely by using his mouth to get off when he's powerless to stop you. Not that he would.


End file.
